Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

A College Of Wit-crackers Cannot Flout Me Out Of My Humor. Dost Thou Think I Care For A Satire Or An Epigram?

Our Wills And Fates Do So Contrary Run, That Our Devices Still Are Overthrown; Our Thoughts Are Ours, Their Ends None Of Our Own.

The Seasons Alter: Hoary-headed Frosts Fall In The Fresh Lap Of The Crimson Rose, And On Old Hiems' Thin And Icy Crown An Odorous Chaplet Of Sweet Summer Buds Is, As In Mockery, Set. The Spring, The Summer, The Childing Autumn, Angry Winter, Change Their Wonted Liveries, And The Mazed World, By Their Increase, Now Knows Not Which Is Which.

The Loyalty, Well Held To Fools, Does Make Our Faith Mere Folly.

The Devil Knew What He Did When He Made Men Politic; He Crossed Himself By It.